


Ineffectual

by katsa5



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Depression, Emotional Hurt, Implied Relationships, Post-Episode: e063 There is No Part 1: Part 2, Post-Episode: e064, Spoilers, Voicemail
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-18 16:33:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3576267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katsa5/pseuds/katsa5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A vignette of a sad, broken state of mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ineffectual

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a box of Kleenex; in case you need them or to have something to throw at author for writing this.

The house was empty.  The room was silent.  Nothing moved in the darkness of the night.  A dropped cell phone laid abandoned on the floor.  A messily colored board and scattered paints were pushed against the wall.  A bowling ball bag was packed away in a cardboard box in a corner.  Dust squares from absent frames lingered like haunts on the white walls.  A picture frame at an end table was laid down flat.

The prone man was on the cold, linoleum floor.  His body was still twisted from the collapse.  His wounded arms were tightly wrapped about his shoulders and hiding his face .  One hung limply in the air with loose, bent fingers like a dead tree.  On a body no longer his, the blotchy bruises and crusted cuts were from a battle that wasn't his.  Bloody clothes that were once impeccable now hung torn in different places.  They were worn without care.  His ragged breathing was stretching out.  His throat was raw.  His hair was disheveled.  Staring at nothing, his darkened, half-open eyes rested heavy lidded.  His unfeeling face was wet with both tears and sweat.

He was empty.  His bones and heart had long since dissolved within him, leaving behind a disemboweled husk.  It had been a long, painful fight.  He gave everything and was given back only lies.  He couldn't be strong anymore.  No longer will he hold onto hope every time his phone rings.  No longer will he believe the smiles people bore.  Did everyone see what a fool he was?  Is that why those he called friends use him?  So-called loved ones surround him, jeering, or staring through at the fool going by?  Why couldn't he have seen it?  What could he have done differently?

His hand fisted and tightened about his face.  Fingers dug into his skin, unflinching as broken nails tore.  The blood in his veins roared and burned in silent pain.  He will never come back to him.  Why would he come back to this?  To this tool?  Why did he believe he would try?  Did he ever want to come back?  He is no different from the rest.  Why should he be?  "I don't believe in hope.  I don't believe in dreams.  No more lies!  I can't, I won't believe in anything.  Not anymore!"

He will lie awake and wait for death to be allowed to him.  To come and take this last, painful breath from him.  Why even try to survive anymore?  Just end it!

But his eyes closed.  New tears silently fell as he was overtaken by exhausted sleep.

Meanwhile, a gentle whimper of a roar called from another room.  The faint rustle of a dress skirt brushed by the door frame.  The phone lit up and a light projection knitted together into the night air.  Someone is there, but who is looking?  Without a sound, he gazed at Cecil.  He sat by his sleeping form and repeatedly tried reaching out to hold him. But his hands fell right through.  His head hung.

  
  


 


End file.
